


Under the Eyes of an Angel

by NotAsWeAre



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAsWeAre/pseuds/NotAsWeAre
Summary: Dark mind games taken to another level and sins of the past are revealed.Who knew what twisted relationships and scars Light had to bear, and inflict, before he even picked up the Death Note? This has been his game all along, and the Death Note case was only just a prelude to the main event. Semi-dark, twisted internal relationships is what will drive the narrative, L/Light as the main dish.Major AU - Canon Divergence right after the all-time favorite roof scene, because no one is satisfied with how it ended.





	1. Prelude

Under the eye of the angel

I came to tell you that I found peace,

Under the eye of the angel

I knew to forgive

[ -K. Maro - Sous l'œil de l'ange ]

 

  

**Chapter 1: One Day, One Room… One Breath**

\--- The Bathtub ---

Take a deep breath… hold it … submerge… deny oxygen to the lungs. Feel the limbs, slowly consumed by water, loose the pull of gravity. It feels like floating in a netherworld. With eyes shut closed, shadows line up to start on their final movements. After few tense moments, muscles relax.

For nearly two years now, my body has been slowly guided thru these motions, dancing on the edge of precipice, but never fully taking the plunge. I have memorized these steps, drilled them into my being, like religious people drill the words of God into their soul. I am not scared to look into the murky abys. It’s just the opposite. I am enchanted by it. Still, it’s a little strange, that a notion of losing one’s life to the masses of water is not registering as an unpleasant thought to a still conscious mind. It is after all an 87% possibility that I might be holding my last breath, my last testament to life… but I am elated instead.

A creature of hard life’s facts would ask “why?”. A simple scientific answer - something might be very wrong with my mental hinges. Probably since birth. But my own answer is a little more complicated than that.

Humanity has this misguided notion that all are equal, that all should be the same. But, one does not have a capability to fully know how another human being functions or feels. So, don’t judge. This act of drowning is not a goal in itself, mind you, but a shortcut I have discovered months ago. It helps me reach out to that singular point, a mirage of a past, which I carve more than a decadent taste of sugar. Every second that passes by. And probably for the rest of my remaining life. 

But before we fully submerge into the shadows of my consciousness, do you know how an encoding of the mental memory works? If you have ever been a victim, or a witness, and needed to testify to the deed done onto you or others, you get my point. If not, let me enlighten you -

After an abuse on your psyche, you don’t get a pass. Instead you are gently persuaded (against your better state, mind you) to see a psychiatrist. And he is just breaming with the need to upload all medical degrees upon you. Sessions upon sessions are spent on rebuilding the memories that you believe have already fled your brain in the horror of things. It is our body trying to protect itself. The only honest participant in that room who is willing to push it all away to make next few hours just a little bit more bearable. You won’t recall it all. And well, short-term memory is a bitch, that’s why it’s called ‘short’ for a reason. Some memories are not recoverable, even if the doctor decides to line up a gun to your temple. They are simply lost to you, to that room, and to that other person with you. But they are still encoded onto your brain. The encoding happens not as a memory of a full-scale motion picture, but as a tingling feeling on your fingertips, a hollow sound in our eardrums, a slightly familiar smell from that time, a dejavu shadow of things that have already passed. Try to recall a memory of a summer day when you were five. Can you do it easily? No. But if you are passing by a cherry tree bloom on a street one day, and that somewhat familiar smell tingles your memory, then you should see where I am going with this.

In my filed of work, I need to remember every single piece of evidence, every word said and not said, every missing picture, details of location, unheard messages. I need them all encoded onto me. For this to happen, I have been trained, since I was five, to construct my own memory mausoleum to accommodate my work. Why mausoleum you ask? Happy memories get summery walks in the parks, with their crystal water fountains and little nooks for hidden kisses. When I was presented with my own choice for the construct, my memories were only fit for the mausoleum. With each memory getting its own square footage, and a sarcophagus, or just a simple plaque with dedication to the passed one, all relevant dates and times. For the memory to get resurrected at will, I need to submerge my consciousness back into the recesses of my mind, step on the grounds of my mausoleum. Like falling backwards into a still uncovered, stone sarcophagus, looking around and trying to spot a precise look and meaning on the faces of weeping angels.

People, who have been known to catch me in this act take my empty look for rudeness, or a temporary sugar induced coma. Later, they say behind my back, that I simply have no tact to appreciate their dull company. Which I don’t. But don’t assume that I am always with you, it’s just where my body simply is. I am not with you, I am looking for things that might have gone bump in the night.

Usually a mental trip of mare seconds is more than enough. But not with this. To go a step further, to invoke all and every particular of a scene, I need more than my mind’s mausoleum. I need my senses engaged as well. In a word, I need to feel a chill of a gravestone under my fingers, taste the suffocating stuffy air in my lungs. Be everything that I was. Experience every encoded second.

Shhhh…. I need to quiet myself now. This analytical side is an emergence of an overactive, overly abused mind, and it needs to be silenced for now.

Slowly dying shadows behind my eyelids are forming a familiar pattern. As reality slips, a scene re-emerges.

I slowly step on the roof of our ‘church’, feel the welcoming chill of the pristine white stone under my naked feet. This memory doesn’t belong in a crypt. It is too special for me. I have constructed you a church. To tower above others’ mortality. As it would be befitting you. Only you.

Ah, I am starting to feel a curtain of a pouring rain on my face. It is time for our private baptism.

Time is no longer a linear bitch selflessly giving itself to the laws of physics, it bends and flows backwards, demands to be had. In the bathtub, water is seeping into my ears, drowning out any source of a sound. Rapidly cooling liquid transcends bleak reality, and becomes a memory of a grey, drizzling rain. Even though this familiar chill carries a distant promise of hypothermia and sickness, it is still necessary to make me recall every chilling drop against my skin. But ‘recall’ might be a wrong word to use here. I carry with me the memory of that night every living second. Since then. If there were any fitting vocabulary words to describe this state, I would have chosen something close to ‘re-live’. The feel of the bathtub’s chilly water makes the illusion more genuine, more alive.

The mind makes a switch.

It is a curtain of a midnight rain on my soaking shirt once again. Encoding transforms into a semi-reality. All my senses are now focused on the presence of one human being. I chide myself, you were always more than a mare human. With the shadow of a figure emerging in front of me, any resemblance of a pretended sanity disappears.

In this semi-darkness, I see Light.

 

He is not how I remember him being at the headquarters, while constantly surrounded by pretentious friends and somewhat genuine family members. The light in irises of his eyes is too intense now to be a lie. Or maybe it’s my neurons playing a trick. But whatever case it might be, there is not even a hint of a forced smile, perpetually frozen in deceit. That mask is gone. As golden lashes are finally soaking in heavy droplets, your hazy gaze is leveled with mine. We have finally arrived.

 

All our conversations and interactions right up to this moment are vividly resurrected like ghosts of the past. Till now, we were both entwined in one long dance, with cruel twists and razor-sharp turns, multiple dips into despair, tantalizing touches of hips... but never a finishing touch. I am not in the habit of appreciating the overdrawn conclusions. They bore me. Which is why I don’t understand why this nearing finale is somehow upsetting now. Everything in this world must have an end. That is just a simple law of nature, dictating that all must be reduced to the reactions among DNA, RNA, proteins and other organic molecules. And then comes dust. We all have a draw of our first and last breath. And here we are. At the finale.

We are not meeting under the stars like some love-sick couple from cheap convenience store novels, proclaiming our undying devotion with useless words and even more useless actions. Come to think of it, there are no stars at all tonight. No, our final move is to see who gets the final drop in the end of the dance. A semblance of a forced baptism in our versions of Justice or Death. Ether one is fine with me, and maybe you as well. Wait… you are making a move toward the staircase door… ah, so this is how it ends. A clean cut. The semblance of our dance is simply dropped. Forget me now, instead of forget me not. You are a monster.

As I inhale the rain and choke on the skinning dread pooling somewhere deep within me, my breath is stolen. You’ve chosen forget me not after all.

Cold, beautiful lips are touching mine. All thoughts, internal processes and rationality are shattered. My body no longer feels any physical contact with the outside world. This is now your body, acting and responding to your wanton will alone. Eyes stay open, as witnesses to the golden flickers of light breaking thru the darkness of the gaze. You are so beautiful like this. So eternal. In the distant haze of my brain, submerged somewhere in the murky bathtub, I can taste our breath, touch, want, desire. It is such a cliché, but I am drowning in you alone. My well-cultivated logic dies. Justice has no place in this construct. For this singular moment, the world of billion faceless people can be dismissed, evaporated, shrugged off. I am free to experience, as one human being experiences another. Underwater, my hands are pulled by a phantom puppet to tightly wrap around a ghost.

With your presence by my side, I am no longer utterly alone.

As a velvet tongue continues to invade the cavern of my mouth, awakening the deepest need in my groin, I am starting to understand the want that has been driving humanity for millennia’. I am no longer anyone else. No longer the persona of three. I am just one. Sharp nails are sinking deeper and deeper into my skin, but gentle pads of your fingers rub the water onto my face, mixing rain and droplets of blood. This is your everlasting mark on my being.

The beautiful and treacherous mouth finally spells the wordless truth, perhaps for the first time in its entire life. This is as new for you as it is for me. I could come from this alone, for the first time in my asexual life. The kiss is not an exchange of saliva, it is an answering call of your confession.

And while we kiss, those damn bells on the church continue to sound our end. No matter how much I want to strike them out of my mind, erase their presence from this architect. I can still hear them ringing. Shut up!!! My frantically racing pulse is not only a sign of desire, but a forebear of what I already know is to come. For one of us, any possibility of future is ceasing to exist now. I want it to be me. I want to fall down in front of you on my knees and beg for it, with my whole body and mouth. Wouldn’t that be a beautiful la petite mort finale? Can’t my selfishness take precedence even for once? Finally, to be the one? As my body continues to answer the call of nature, I begin to lose the contact with your golden eyes. I feel myself come.

. . .

A rough hand disrupts the stillness of water and pulls me up. I am no longer on the roof of the white stone church. As lungs take an involuntary breath, my traitorous mind rapidly digresses back to a grey reality of a marble bathroom, located in the corner of an anonymous VIP suite, just as the clock handle rings the midnight. The bells are silent now. On the periphery of my still blurry vision, sad elderly eyes are assessing my state, trying to guess if I went just a little bit far this time.

Your ghostly embrace is gone.

 

\-- A page from a Journal, penned in a neat handwriting by a slender hand --

 

The only thought racing thru my mind as I kissed him on the roof that day was “I cannot let him die”. But for him to exist, Kira had to vanish. And Kira has always been a part of a person called Light. It seems that God has ensured that one would not exist without the other, since the day I drew my first breath, and certainly to the day that I die. What no one seemed to realize, was that I have been married to Death even before that unremarkable plain notebook fell from the sky. Before I even penned that first name, I knew that my history from before, would be an atonement for sins that came after.

They say that when someone is about to die, their lifespan rushes before their eyes, rewinding and fast-forward like cut and pasted scenes from a film. But all I saw in those last few seconds was not my family, school life, or glimpses of another world. I only saw deep pools of black eyes. As the heels of my dress shoes slowly inched closer to the edge of the roof, with lips still tasting the scent of another, I accepted that this trilling game of minds had to be finished…for now.

Who would ever know of twisted relationships and scars I had to bear, and inflict, even before I picked up the cursed notebook? Until the pages of this journal, no one. This has been my game all my life, a prelude for even stranger things to come. It did not matter if I wanted that moment to last, because just for few fleeting seconds I’ve finally felt alive. L might be the winner now, with whatever reward he accepts as a prize. But all the pieces have been set up and waiting for their master to come.

Do you still remember, I wonder, how the noses of my shoes followed the heels, and over the edge? Am I in your memory, even now?

But death is a funny thing. If you have never experienced one, how can you say with certainty that it exists? I’ve made my first move L. The prelude is over. It’s your turn to follow me now.

 

[ the page is crumbled and burned to ashes, so no one can ever guess who penned the lines]

 

\-- Back in the VIP suite --

“Another bloody Picasso that doesn’t follow a pattern. Watari, do we have a detailed police report from the crime scene yet?”

A thin, white finger slowly clicks thru digital photos on the computer screen, showing every angle of a freshly discovered corpse. It is past 3 in the morning. The corps, previously known in her late twenties as a woman named Helena, has long, golden brown hair and wide unseeing eyes. Her lips are still lush and painted with blood, not her own, if DNA reports to be believed. A frozen expression of tragic sadness is the only fingerprint mark left behind.

On the photographs, she is staged as a weeping angel, situated next to a small flowing fountain. The freezing temperature seems to have no effect on the water. So strange indeed. The water runs red like blood. She is already in the graveyard.

What is even more striking than her beauty, is the work of a skilled hand that had shaped Helena’s hair into an eternal halo around her head. Her body is wrapped in multiple frozen white sheets, spreading behind her like clipped wings of an angel. Helena’s hands seem to carefully hold a shadow of something. But they are empty.

The name that L will later give to the case is ‘Sous L’oeil de L’Ange’ – Under the Eye of an Angel’.


	2. The Portrait of The Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little glimpse into Light. “There are certain clues at a crime scene which, by their very nature, do not lend themselves to being collected or examined. How does one collect love, rage, hatred, and fear…?” - James Reese

**Nietzsche once said, “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.”**

When you are faced with a monster, how do you know that you are looking at one?

I can feel the other man’s arousal pressing against my clothed shaft. I don’t appreciate his cheap intrusions on me. Every time he gets slightly bolder and rougher than the first time’s insecure grab. But it’s almost better than spitting blood from denying him the chance to appreciate my person. I can take on rough handling from time to time, but I do get bored. I require an entertainment of some kind in this glass and steel furnished hellhole. I bide my time.

My entertainment will start, right after this is over. Maybe I can even pick up on techniques of appreciating another man’s body, though I can already taste the bile rising with the acid within me.  I release my fist, which is holding an imaginary sharp tool of a daily trade. I remember someone telling me once, how even a small object, such as a silver key dangling around this person’s lanky neck, can easily slide into the jugular, spilling the need in another way. But it’s not time, yet. Today my demons are kept at bay. I have a stage to set.

A sweaty hand is curving around my waist, traveling slowly up to my spine, like trying to find stubs from my wings. My form is that of a fallen God in his mind, oh so he confessed the other time. I am simply repulsed.

When I was eight, I’ve sneaked into the bookstore’s sex and psychology section (only some perverted mind would place that specific section next to the children’s summer reading table, but hey, who am I to judge …maybe parents do need that extra something to take their minds off sniveling cries). I did not look at porn, but I did select a book on human sexual drive. I still remember how one of the chapters talked about people wanting to be close to others via sexual act, to keep their mental state in balance, and not for everyone’s favorite notions of love. But as I try to copy this man’s behavior, there is no desire breeding inside, not even speeding of a pulse. Am I digressing back in evolution, or moving beyond?

As his rough hands explore underneath my light linen shirt, pressing and kneading my abused nipple into a submissive nub, his already leaking erection presses into the valley of my thigh, causing both of us to gasp. Him from excitements, and me from utter boredom.

Boredom is a psychological state experienced when an individual’s mind is left without any functionality. So, in a minute I will take this leaking matter into my hands, just to prove that book wrong. I am alone even with someone else trying to intrude into me. For now, his fascination with me serves a purpose, if not of a body, then that of a mind. He makes me polish my reflection on the construct of a polluted human mind. To keep my lunch down, I turn my head to the window, and bath my face in the afternoon light.

 

Let me explain to you first what I am doing in this ice like prison, cut and cast away from society, and guarded by the circle of Mont Blanc Alps. The chain of events, carefully handcrafted by my own hands, has landed me in the middle of this. And ‘this’ might not be much to the eye, but it does have a vast cyber library of resources needed for the work in front of me. Like a cultivation farm of a new Ls, but with a much darker side. This place is designed for the brightest and darkest of minds. After deeming our crimes to be punishable by death, they want us to pay back with our talents by serving humanity outside. Death will not benefit anyone in this place. The rule is that the mind is not to be wasted like a body. But when no one is looking too closely, my body is up for this person’s grabs.

Unlike on previous occasions, the guard draws my face back to his neck, asking for a lick or a bite. Disgust of a direct touch, so intimate for me, drives my body to make a voluntary advance. Predicting his moves, I display a counter-strike. Lifting from his lap, my body falls down in front of him, cracking my knees on the floor, like a fallen God in prostration. Shit! this actually hurt a lot you dick. I draw his knees apart to move in between and take a closer look at the still clothed shaft. A vague smile on my face hints at the decision on what shall be done. My theatrics are still on par. The act makes the guard’s breath hike even higher, and take a pause a slightly blissful sight. I think he already wants to cum, but doesn’t want to spoil all the fun. So, let us continue.

 

Continue back to the recesses of a human mind and consequences of actions that landed me here.

Society is a petri dish that creates a perfect killer. Have you ever paid attention to the detail, that our world functions based on the scale of ‘averages’? You are ether measurement higher on the scale, and is placed above the average Joes, for them to admire and strive to become for the duration of their meaningless life (but to never succeed, which is a joke is on them). Or, if you strongly deviate from their statistical average defined as a ‘norm’, and placed on the bottom, to be judged as a lesser being with god-knows-for-what-reason defected mind. You become their obsession and shame.

People love making an example of someone’s failures, just to raise theirs, and their future generation’s mediocre position on the social ladder of life. They feel a happy anticipation to have a contemptuous rightness to judge. Gods are placed on the highest mark of the scale, and murderers reduced to the bottom. Which brings me to my case at hand, why Kira case was never properly solved, or judged in the court of the men. And L knew why. Because in the average mind, you cannot be both, the highest and lowest of terms. Average logic breaks down, and the idea of a ‘norm’ no longer exists. Justice loses its function when faced with the possibility of the righteous evil. And the chaos ensures. During my reign, Kira was ether praised as God, or as a murderer, but praised none the less. Only L himself could have attempted to solve the dilemma at hand but was not given a chance with my faked suicide.

I was not forgiven by the higher order of so-called world leaders, but, at the same time, I could never be persecuted to the full extent of the Law. Plus, I feel they were afraid for their sniveling children, mistresses and wives, whose names I’ve acquired by spending much of my time in L’s systems, as a security blanket of mine. So, they keep me as a consultant of sorts, in these Alps, but have thrown away the key to the outside. Light has died in the process and no longer exists, except in these Alps. Like a dog with a digital collar inside my wrists, they would paralyze my muscles if they saw me try to write any significant names. The only time that I have access to my Death Note now, is on the day when I am chosen to become a judge to a criminal that is out of reach.

Why waist a kid, who can become in no time, a perfect killer for nations of high and mighty? A perfect assassin for the power of ‘good’, who will never reveal their identity, or even leave the preemies of his cell, in order to commit atrocious acts against similarly atrocious persons. L is praised by them for his mind. I, on another hand, for my lack of ‘sympathy to the cultured masses’ (hahaha… that’s how they tried to phrase it the first time they approached me before I ‘took’ my own life). But the joke is on them, I am where I needed to be from the start. I agree, not a perfect condition, but a perfect location to access the information buried deep down in ‘strictly need to know basis’ files. The data I seek does not exist in police records for me to hijack, (I searched land and high seas for them since I was 5). And if they were ever physically written by hand, then they were destroyed as soon as they hit the higher ups desks. I needed Kira to fall, for Light rise. But here, I can access any information I need to fulfill their dirty little purpose, and quietly mine, when the guard falls into the state of rest after his dirty work on my body

 

With minutes passing by, my hair is no longer being petted like to an obedient dog, but roughly pulled closer and closer, just inches away from the smell of the guard’s leaking sex, begging to be released from the uniform trousers. A lick to the rough fabric around his member, slow and tantalizing in rhythm, makes the wet stain more prominent. I spread his legs even wider. Show me what needs to be gaged on.

The zipper on his pants is half broken and old, so I rip it open with my white perfect teeth and demonstrate a ghost of a smile. I wonder, if I gave surface to my heart felt intent and bite his disk raw, would he stop, or beg to go on? His character says that he might even enjoy it some, maybe I will give it a try next time. Without wasting more time, (I already want to be done), I reached to open the folds of man’s trousers and pull out his member from soiled with precum underwear. It’s an average size, so at least he will be a perfect dummy in my education, but not to leave a physical tear on my mouth. Without giving myself any time to think, the guard is already sobbing at the view of my half prominent tong licking my lips like I want his cum, I bite the noise back, and take the matters … into my left hand. My right hand is for the Death Note alone, its purity needs to be treasured, not tarnished. But the left is semi-active in life, and somehow make this experience less reality-like. Without a lube, it’s fast and raw rubbing, and the guard might not last. That is my intent after all. But the bastard is taking my hand and licking the palm, forcing me to start stroking in earnest, more sex like. I let go of his legs, and hook his ankles over my shoulder. He is in a sitting position, with me kneeling between, and slowly rubbing his dick along the vein line. We slowly continue like this for some time.

 

What is your most perverse fantasy? The one you want to hide, not only from close relations, but strangers as well? If a stranger by chance sees you reading a porn blog on a sidewalk, while you both are waiting for the light to turn green, are you embarrassed?  If yes, why do you care so much? You will never see this person again, and your paths are crossed only once. But what if it is a family member, or God forbid your girlfriend or wife? There is embarrassment, anger, and finally denial. No, they saw something wrong, and you are once again pure like a white winter snow in the moonlight. Only deviants deviate, and beautiful boys fall in line. Human’s inability to see the worst in others on whom they enforce their love, blinds their sight. I am no angel or god to this jailer, but he sees me as one. So this ‘innocent’ play will stay in the ‘R’ with the guard. 

Back in the days, to fool my father, I accidentally got L’s undivided attention thru the camera’s eye. The camera is on now in this cell too, it is never turned off by regulations. Will my guard erase the tape, or keep it for the sake of this lewd connection, to get off in later days when the access to me is denied? L, can I play the same trick on you twice?

Oh! this is giving me stimulus to take it a notch further. This private peep show that I am giving my jailer’s camera now… I start to imagine L’s evoked jealousy in my mind. He is a shadow that is always with me since that day he departed from my falling sight, a judge and an executioner, a lover and a priest. He is a priest, because he would sooner eat a vegetable than accept the sacrilege of having based desires like his display on the roof that night.  But he is a lover as well, as we are one and the same. We’ve fucked with each other’s head so many times, that even the physical penetration would not compare to the violation of deepest thoughts in our minds.

Hah! this is getting me into the mood. The psychological drama of one perverted mind, yours and mine L. As I lift my eyes to the camera’s eye, let me ask the questions again - what is your most perverse fantasy, L? Hide it well, so no one can see it, and no one can judge. Mine was to be God. Yours is to be my Judge. Did it change with the passing of out time apart, did it evolve? If yes, then I look forward to us, being of the same body and mind.

The jailer is my bitch now. L, watch us entwine. Him, burning for me with desire, and me playing him like a high-strung violin. I am soooo bored this week, only because you don’t share any cases at hand, but not to your knowledge, so you are forgiven this time. It would be narrow of me to at least not consider this. Let me torture you for a little while, if only in my mind. If I can get my hands on the tape, the probability of that is 99.7% judging by my jailer’s average recuperation time after his climax hits hard, you will see this recorded tape soon enough. The sound of distress you will make should be divine. Watch me again thru your monitor view, and don’t forget to service yourself in the meanwhile.

While the guard clumsily pets and fondles with my longer than usual golden-brown strands, I am thinking about the funeral, how often they want us to have perfect sex, just to prove we exist. Did you go to mine? I would have gone to yours, I promise. I would have laughed and cried, maybe jerked off to prove that I was still alive, while you helplessly watched me from above or below. I can never achieve this completeness of body and mind, never could, expect with you, watching me then, and ghostly watching me now. This is my desire, and this - my design. As soon as you have enough of this obscenity, you will surely claim me back in your arms. You are juvenile, and no one wants other kids playing with their toys.

 

Just thinking about all this, sent vibrations straight to the lower part of my abdomen, where my dick lies hard. Not from the touch of the guard, but the idea of L ghostly observing me right now. I never knew I was pre-disposed to a reverse-voyeurism. Such a beautiful knowledge.  But my left hand is getting disgustingly wet, so I shift my weight on screaming in pain knees and adjust the angle for a proper end. I am for a moment enthralled. As I lean forward, my jaw gets surprisingly locked. What am I thinking!? L, your ghost has almost made me undone. The guard is ready to shove my mouth on his disk, when I cast my glanced over the small bulge in his pants packet. My right-hand drifts inside to seek what surely will be a condom. No way am I getting any oral disease from this man.

Hearing no protest, he is afraid to push his luck, a condom goes on, all the way to the hilt. I don’t’ care for his comfort or lack thereof, but his cum will not be a bother now. Opening my mouth wide, I decide to take him to the brink of release. The guard digs his sweaty hands into my fairly abused scalp, and whimpers with need, biting his lip raw in the process. The air is filled with the scent of his blood.

 

I remember waking up to a similar smell as a child of not even 1, the metallic taste of blood mixed with flowers and natural scent of my mother. I close my eyes, the pendulum of time counts back 20 years, and I am at the scene of the primordial crime.

I could not see his face, but a small raspy sound told me that we were not alone in the graveyard. A slushy sound of blunt knife, carving and re-arranging my mothers’ body, was the only sound that I remember from that night. And even though she was dead, I appreciated her keeping me company, and not freezing to death while she still held me strong in her dead arms. I wasn’t spared that day, most likely was saved for the last.

Victimology is defined as the study of the victims of crime, and the psychological effects endured by them because of their experience. Was I a victim since then? Since my birth, my brain’s capacity to function in a way that bundles information into the complex neural patterns that we know as memories have been a remarkable one. To this day, in my dreams and waking hours, I can see the blurred shadow of my mother’s face, eyes wide shut, begging for mercy, but receiving none. The face of my real mother, before adoption took place, a month later in Japan. Father Yagami, if I can still call you such, what a fraud you are.

‘Victim’, besides the common legal term used in the courtrooms, is defined in the older western records as a living being, offered or being sacrifice. So, am I a victim, or a sacrifice? I might have been both that day, if that monster wasn’t stopped in time, by a bullet to his head. But sadly, not to his brain. But at the same time, research and clinical experience clearly indicate that those people themselves, who went thru an extreme case of abuse (or an exposure to one,) are also likely to show little or no compassion, and exhibit self-righteousness. You see, Kira was born by a human hand, long before a Death God got bored and decided to play a cruel game with my mind. And because I have no memory to identify the primordial monster of my dreams, I must get rid of all this filth polluting the world, saving not only myself, but future victims of rape, torture, abuse, and death. For all this time, I could not find any objective evidence like police reports or medical records, to reconstruct the circumstances of that night. It is like my mother had never existed, and Yagami’s were my real blood family in all legal terms. Thus, my true purpose in these Alps is to create the psychological profile of the monster, draw him out, and find the evidence I need in the collection of global files digitally stored right here, under the cover of Mont Blank

 

The guard is wrecked with shivers and fucking my mouth in earnest now. These memories waned away any ghost of me being hard, thus this mule of a man is starting to be a bother. All previous need for release dissipates from my body.

To speed up the process and make him come, I pull down his pants all the way to the ankles and use my left hands’ two fingers to knead his ass. Spreading it open, I insert a middle finger into his un-lubed twitching hole. This will teach him not to come empty handed and expect to be serviced with spit alone. At first, the hole is not sucking me in, and the guard screams from the mix of oral pleasure and anal pain. But several strokes work their magic, and it starts to take my finger in more freely. I add two more to bring him more pain afterwards. My payback. Feel the ridges of my knuckles slip past the ring of the muscle. Without taking a breath, I continue my fast pace and sync it with the movement of my mouth, without waiting the guard to adjust. Good luck sitting tomorrow, you ass.

 

Someone told me once, that confessions are good for the soul. So, here is mine – the world confuses me, its cruelty, its tragedy, its deliberate blindness to both. As I shove my fingers in and out, I am beyond cruel in my intent to this body. But I did so many shitty things to others, so many times, to simply glimpse into the recesses of human mind. Just me being curios of the outcome. So why not this guard? At least, he deserves it. I am an ‘innocent’ here.

You see, even after witnessing the death of my birth mother, my mind was a fresh and an innocent one. To catch a killer, you need to think link one. So I had to fill it by observing my ‘father’s’ cases of human gutter, in order to sort thru diseases of sick minds. Thus, growing up, I practiced on others, to methodically draw out the portrait of monsters in men. How does it justify the killing of a human as Kira, and not decent into madness of a criminal act? I started young at drawing the lines of a monster, so I could recognize the madness when it crept on me in the shadows, and commit evil acts without crossing the line. I was 7 when I asked my online pen-pal to explain to me the stage of psychotic decent into darkness by an innocent mind, pushed by despair, to finally commit dreadful acts. And after the request was fulfilled, I asked to relate the experience thru his eyes, and relive it together with me. It might have pushed him over the line, or so he told me later from within four walls of another hellhole just like mine, but I honestly was curious, as to what extent a highly intelligent mind can cloud with misjudgment, to drive a dear friend or loved one to the darkest recesses of their mind… His friend’s death (rest in peace) was not of my design but did teach me a valuable psychological lessons that came useful later in life. Regarding my pen-pal, he became my mentor of sorts, and I even visited him in prison once, until he presumably died.

I did warn you up front, that sex makes me think of funeral, and vice versa, didn’t I? Anyway, this is a portrait of a monster I seek, so I had to get close in my thinking pattern to see one. And now you have a glimpse of it too.

 

Thank all that is below, the guard has finally reached his climax and come.

 

As I clean my fingers and re-arrange my clothes, (shit, my knees really had a close encounter with an icy marble floor), my buddy is resting in his post-sex hazy state. As I rise, his fingers ghost underneath my chin, gently lifting it up, to reduce the space between him and I. I jerk away. Leaving the guard alone to bask in the afterglow just for a little while. I log on my laptops and search for the camera feed. I do not kiss and tell you fucking asshole.

And what shall I do with this recording? I move it it into my cloud for now.

 “L. You are taking so long, I have to throw you the crumbs.”

I type the webpost heading: “The Portrait of the Monster”. In the text body it reads - James Reese once said, “There are certain clues at a crime scene which, by their very nature, do not lend themselves to being collected or examined.  How does one collect love, rage, hatred, and fear…?” But Helena would know, don’t you agree L?”


End file.
